


Fidelity

by Kainosite



Category: Political RPF - UK 20th c.
Genre: Angst, Beating, Domestic Violence, M/M, New Labour, Strapping, Woobie!Peter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-21
Updated: 2011-10-21
Packaged: 2017-10-24 20:20:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/267486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kainosite/pseuds/Kainosite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Autumn, 1993.  Under John Smith's leadership Peter's political future seems uncertain, but at least he can rely on his fellow modernizers, his lover Gordon and their best friend Tony.  Until one evening when Tony casually rapes him and brings Peter's delicately balanced world crashing down around his ears. Warnings for non-con and domestic violence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written in response to [this prompt and fill](http://lolitics-meme.livejournal.com/6735.html?thread=12958799#t12958799) at the Lolitics meme.
> 
> Warnings for non-con, domestic violence, victim blaming, and insultingly obvious metaphors for the 1994 Labour leadership contest. LOTS of victim blaming. Be advised: Peter is a pretty unreliable narrator here, and in potentially triggery ways.

"You can't just leave the bag open," Peter said, popping another stale crisp into his mouth with the mild distaste of a man who doesn't like what he's eating but can't be arsed to go into the kitchen and find something more appetizing. "They go all soggy."

He was sitting on the back of Tony's sofa, and theoretically they were working on Tony's conference speech. But they'd been at it for three hours and they were both out of ideas, so the conversation had turned to crisps, and inevitably, to reforming the party voting system.

"Don't _you_ start," Tony said. "Cherie's always on at me about forgetting to seal the bag, but I have more important things to worry about, y'know? Like getting these reforms through."

"Even with John Prescott coming out for it, it's still going to be a hard sell. There's a huge block of people who will be against it no matter what, so we've got to reach out to everyone we can possibly bring on side. That's why we're going to go round to every Trot and anarchist and whale-hugging hippy and convince them that the union bosses are tools of the Capitalist Oppressor and wrestling power out of their ape-like hands is a blow for the People. I've booked you for every fringe meeting I can find."

Tony winced. "Do I have to?"

"We can hardly send Gordon."

Tony snorted in acknowledgment, but he was still whinging.

"But- look, I hate these people. _You_ hate these people. You've spent the past eight years trying to destroy them."

Peter smirked and leaned over his shoulder. "That's why we have to send _you_ to seduce them, dear," he murmured in Tony's ear. "It wouldn't work if it were me. But you have that charming 'I came to socialism through Marxism' quote you can brandish at them."

"Just because you've convinced them you're the Antichrist, I don't see why _I_ should have to run around _talking_ to them. It's inhuman and degrading treatment; there ought to be a law. Speaking of which, do you know what we did with the page about the Bill of Rights?"

"Pile near the television," Peter said, going over to look for it. He found it near the top of the stack and handed it to Tony.

"Thanks. Do I really have to meet with these people?"

"Would I send you out to meet with the creepy-crawlies among the grassroots if anything less than the future of our beloved Party were at stake? I just hope it will be enough. We're going to be up against it just getting this through, and it's such a minor change."

"We'll change the Party bit by bit, so nobody will notice it," Tony sang, and Peter sniggered. Tony slapped the draft of his speech down on the coffee table in disgust.

"Really, though, how can _this_ be a hard sell? Half the unions themselves want it! _They_ want us in government; _they_ don't want to live under the Tories for the rest of recorded time."

"Yes, but they're human beings, not Bennites. If the Party is ever going to make it to the Government benches, it will have to be dragged across the floor kicking and screaming."

"This isn't dragging. This is a gentle push." Tony shook his head in disgust. "We need a revolution, not evolution. At this glacial pace of change we're never going to win people's trust, and the country can't afford for us to lose another election. We've got to take a harder line."

"Going to whip us into shape, Mr. Shadow Home Secretary?" Peter teased, and Tony laughed and pulled him down onto his lap.

"Starting with _you_ , you scheming little weasel," Tony said. "I'll teach you to schedule me meetings with left-wing loonies without consulting me first. Just for that, you can figure out what I've done with the bit about the community care provisions."

Peter obediently began hunting around for it amidst the detritus on the table, while behind him Tony leaned back and said mournfully,

"I wish I _could_ whip us into shape. John just doesn't get it, and Gordon won't confront him. But we don't just need a little tweaking here and there, we need a fundamental change. We need to become a whole new Labour Party."

"Tough on unelectability, tough on the causes of unelectability?" Peter suggested.

"Exactly! And not just on this union stuff. On the representation of women, on our tax policy, everything! We need to be a party for the whole country, not for a few unemployed ex-miners in Durham. Sometimes I think you and I are the only ones in the entire PLP who understand the magnitude of the problem. And Gordon, I guess, not that you'd know it to listen to him in Shadow Cabinet."

"Got it!' Peter said triumphantly, his fingers closing on the stray page, and he turned around to hand it to Tony. But instead of taking it, Tony slipped a hand behind his head, pulled him closer, and kissed him on the lips.

It was quite a good kiss, Peter thought vaguely, when Tony let him go. Not a quick jokey sort of kiss, more of an enthusiastic tonguey sort of kiss. He stared at his friend in stupefied confusion and tried to process this.

"Tony?"

Tony took this as an invitation to do it again, possibly because Peter was still sitting on his lap. Concern that it might happen a third time cut through Peter's shock like a knife, and when Tony released him once more, he set a land speed record scooting to the far end of the sofa.

"Tony? What the hell was that?" he asked, recovered enough by now to muster a little indignation.

Tony grinned and followed him to his side of the sofa.

"We need a break from this speech. What do you say to a little R&R?"

"We- we could turn on the telly? I think Heseltine is going to be on _Newsnight_ ; that's always good for a laugh."

Tony chuckled.

"Not quite what I had in mind," he said, leaning over him. "C'mon, it'll be fun."

"Tony, stop it! We're both with someone, we can't just-"

"We can do whatever we want, Peter. It's just the two of us tonight."

"But- Cherie-" Peter said, and Tony kissed him again.

"Cherie's in Sefton visiting her mum."

He reached for Peter's tie and loosened the knot. Peter pulled away from him, pressing back into the sofa cushions. "You're still married to her! Your kids are sleeping upstairs, for God’s sake! And what about Gordon?"

"You're _not_ married to Gordon," Tony pointed out, smiling. "You belong to both of us. And I'm the one who's here."

"Tony, we can't do this. He's going to be furious!"

"Then don't tell him," Tony suggested, unbuttoning Peter's shirt.

This wasn't supposed to be happening. This _shouldn't_ be happening. And Peter could stop it, he knew he could. It wasn't like with Gordon, who could pin him down with a single hand. This was just Tony. He had a few pounds on him, but Peter knew he could push him off if he needed to. He could just shove him to the floor and leave.

But he couldn't bring himself to do it. Tony would be hurt by such a harsh rejection, and once he got over his shock he'd be so _angry_. Peter simply couldn't afford to offend him, not with such an important conference coming up. It was going to be a delicate operation getting the reforms through, one requiring all hands to the tiller, and if Tony banished him in disgrace he'd be powerless to intervene. They had to sneak him in under John's nose as it was; Peter would never manage it without Tony's cheerful collusion. He'd be stuck on the sidelines watching helplessly as the reform agenda stalled.

That thought, even more than the idea of upsetting Tony, was unbearable. No, Peter couldn't push him away. He'd have to talk his way out of this, gently dissuade him somehow. It shouldn't be difficult. Surely Tony would stop once he saw Peter was genuinely distressed? So instead of slapping his hands away, Peter flattened himself against the cushions and tried to melt back into the sofa while his friend ran a hand down his bare chest.

"Please, I don't want to do this," he tried again, but Tony shushed him, lightly tweaking a nipple.

"It's okay. I'll be gentle, I promise."

"I'm not worried about your _technique_ -"

"Good, 'cos I get rave reviews. Just relax. Everything is going to be _fine_ , Peter."

"It _won't_ be fine! It- mmph!" Tony shut him up with another kiss, his tongue thrusting forcefully into Peter's mouth. Peter tried to pull away, but his head was jammed into the corner of the sofa by now, and there was nowhere to go. His only choices were to sit there and let himself be kissed or to _bite_ Tony, which obviously was not an option. He couldn't even work out how to do it with Tony holding his chin.

Tony finally pulled back to let them breathe.

"Please, Tony. We can't do this to Gordon."

Tony tutted. "Gordon, Gordon, Gordon. Listen, Peter, your loyalty is sweet- to a point. But there's a time and a place, y'know? You can't let him control your whole life. Just 'cos he's a boring ascetic who never has any fun, it doesn't mean _you_ have to be. And right now he's not here, we are, and I'm horny. Look, do you find me hideously repulsive or something?"

"No, of course I don't! But it's not about that-"

"Then stop being such a frigid little tease. You've been flirting with me all evening; it's not nice to wind a guy up and then leave him hanging like this."

Peter stared at him in dismay. He always flirted with Tony. He flirted with everyone; he flirted with _girls_ , for God's sake. Tony couldn't possibly have thought he _meant_ anything by it.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to, honestly, I-"

"Great! Then you won't mind making up for it," Tony said, giving him a sunny grin.

"Tony, we really, really can't do this. _Please_."

Tony cocked his head, his expression hardening. "You don't want to annoy me, do you?"

Peter quailed into the cushions. "No."

"Then be a good boy and stop whining. Don't worry, you're going to love this. I went to boarding school; I know what I'm doing." Tony grinned at him again and started unbuckling Peter's belt.

"Please stop," Peter said again, but Tony just ignored him, unzipping his fly and gently tugging his trousers off his hips. Damn it, why wouldn't he _listen_? And it was so hard to move. None of Peter's limbs seemed to be working; he felt paralyzed. He should be trying to escape somehow, to wriggle free or push Tony away or _something_ , but the impulse just wasn't translating into muscle movements. As desperately as he wanted to get away, to be anywhere but here, he might as well have been trying to teleport off the sofa for all the difference it made.

Everything was numb except for Tony's hand reaching into his pants.

That he could feel just fine.

Tony's fingers ran lightly along his cock, and Peter shivered and closed his eyes. Maybe if he didn't have to look at Tony he could tell him to fuck off? But it was no good, he still knew it was him. Even with his eyes closed he could still see Tony's face, his bright eyes, his strangely intent expression. Hands that were unquestionably, inescapably Tony's hands grabbed the elastic waistband of Peter's briefs and pulled them down, and finally, finally Peter's useless limbs came to life and he made a grab for his pants. But there was no strength in his fingers, and Tony easily tugged his pants out of his grasp and pushed them down to his knees.

Peter reluctantly opened his eyes again to find Tony grinning at him.

"I never expected _you_ to be so shy, sexually. This is a side of you I haven't seen before," Tony said, chuckling. "I kind of like it."

Peter didn't even know how to begin refuting this. Tony was so utterly, willfully wrong that it probably didn't matter _what_ he said. Tony would hear in it what he wanted to hear. And if he was determined enough to rewrite Peter's polite but adamant 'no' as a coy 'yes,' then God only knew what he would do with a more forceful refusal. Peter felt an ominous potential building around them, like some deeper darkness creeping into the shadows at the edge of the lamplight. This was nothing, just a meaningless one-night stand. Tony shouldn't have wanted it badly enough to ignore his protests like this. But for whatever reason he did, and Peter was beginning to get a sickening premonition of just how dangerous it could be to thwart him.

Peter wasn't going to fight him. It wasn't a decision, it was just something he suddenly _knew_ , viscerally, with a horrible certainly that drained all the resistance from his body and left behind it a rank hollowness, like the slime underneath a pier at low tide. There had been hope underneath his desperate longing to escape, a belief that if only he said the right words or did the right thing he could somehow make this not happen. All he had now was the bitter knowledge that he wasn't man enough to refuse Tony's advances, that on some level he deserved this, because he was going to knuckle under and give Tony whatever he wanted. Why _shouldn't_ Tony use him like a cheap whore, if Peter didn't have the guts to stop him?

He closed his eyes and fought to stave off his nausea as Tony's lips sealed around his cock.


	2. Chapter 2

The worst part was that it was just as good as he'd always imagined it would be. And Peter _had_ imagined this. Tony's soft lips on his, that silver tongue exploring his mouth or running up and down his cock. When Tony addressed the House he always grabbed the edges of the dispatch box to steady himself, and Peter couldn't help wondering how it would feel to have those hands clutching his hips or tangled in his hair, guiding his movements. Or he imagined the three of them together, Tony and Gordon reaching for each other with Peter in the middle, or sitting down on Gordon's lap on the tiny sofa from their old parliamentary office with Gordon inside him and Tony leaning over them.

He felt a little guilty about his mental infidelity, but he'd never expected it to come to anything. It was just idle fantasy. As far as Peter knew Tony was straight as a die and faithful to Cherie, and for his part Peter put a high price on loyalty. He wasn't a prude about adultery; it had brought his parents together, after all, and he couldn't condemn a practice that had made a happy marriage from two unhappy ones and resulted in his birth. But he didn't believe in half measures. True love was one thing, but a casual affair was entirely another, a cruel betrayal of a loving partner for the sake of a cheap thrill. He'd been cheated on once, and he'd vowed never to inflict that pain on anyone else.

So he'd allowed himself the indulgence of his daydreams in the certain knowledge that they could never become reality, never do Gordon any harm. When he was with Gordon he was with Gordon. It was only when he was alone and bored that he let himself think of Tony, and even then it was less a betrayal than a coping mechanism. His fantasies supplied him with an outlet for his frustration, something to stop him from wanting what he couldn't have.

Gordon, well... Peter loved Gordon for his mind. For his intelligence, for his passion, for his dedication, for his political acumen, for the way he instantly saw every implication of a suggested policy and could rattle off a dozen lines of attack and a dozen rebuttals. For his rare moments of thoughtfulness, which appeared in Peter's life like glimpses of some exotic butterfly in a dark forest, fragile and beautiful and entirely unexpected. For the way any shirt he put on looked like he'd slept in it within five minutes, for the way one stray curl always flopped down onto his forehead, for the look of fierce concentration he always wore when he read. For the way he lay in the bed like a cozy lump and let Peter stick his cold feet under him to warm them, grumbling but always pulling him closer.

The sex itself was barely adequate, and even getting it there had taken Peter about two years of concerted effort. These days Gordon just about knew where his prostate _was_ , and in his more generous moods positioned Peter in such a way that he had better than even odds of hitting it. In his less generous moods his feeling seemed to be that Peter could lie back and think of England and content himself with a handjob afterwards. Peter suspected it was some sort of hang-up about penetration, one of Gordon's little "I'm straight really, I just happen to have a boyfriend" issues. It was gay to think too much about the mechanics of anal sex, so enjoying it was Peter's problem. And as for _Peter_ sticking _his_ cock anywhere- ha. He should count himself lucky Gordon was willing to touch the damn thing, it certainly wasn't getting within a hundred yards of any _orifices_.

The frustrating thing was that Peter _liked_ it rough and he'd rather bottom than top, so if Gordon had been even slightly interested in pleasing him, they would have been perfectly compatible. In fairness, there were days when Gordon's brusque dominance was thrilling and Peter didn't mind at all being bent over the nearest piece of furniture and used for his lover's pleasure, so it wasn't like the sex was _all_ bad. And it wasn't like he was abusive. If Peter said he wasn't in the mood Gordon never pressed him, and he was always careful not to injure him. Once or twice he'd made him bleed and it had been all Peter could do to talk an abjectly remorseful Gordon out of rushing him to hospital. He wasn't cruel. Just... inconsiderate.

But sometimes Peter wanted a little consideration, and the only place he could get it was inside his head. The Tony of his fantasies was a kind lover, firm but gentle, effortlessly commanding but always attentive to Peter's needs. _He_ didn't treat sex like it was a tedious but necessary chore, to be performed diligently but gotten over with as quickly as possible. _He_ didn't act like Peter's cock was made of some toxic substance that might prove carcinogenic on prolonged contact. _He_ didn't fold Peter in half and pound into his spine until every thrust had him whimpering in pain. _He_ didn't leave Peter to finish himself off and go back to his desk to read the latest IMF report. Fantasy Tony didn't have a shadow portfolio; his only brief was to make sure Peter enjoyed himself, and he carried out his duties with enthusiasm.

The reality, though... No amount of daydreaming could have prepared Peter for the reality. It had been such a long time since someone had touched him like they wanted to please him, like it mattered whether or not he was enjoying himself. As little as he wanted this, he couldn't help but respond. His body warmed to Tony's sure fingers, opened to him like a flower to the sun. To have the whole focus of Tony's regard on him like this was dazzling, bewildering. He had no defense against it. His thighs parted in silent invitation, and Tony interrupted his work to give Peter a cheerful grin.

"Told you I was good," he said smugly, and bent his head again, sucking delicately at the tip of Peter's cock. Peter made a small noise in the back of his throat like a frightened animal and his hips jerked upward, helplessly, mindlessly seeking pressure. Tony pulled off again to flash him another smile.

"That's it," he said, confident and approving, like Peter had just disentangled a speech for him. Peter knew it didn't count, knew it wasn't _Tony's_ approval he needed, but nonetheless the reassurance washed over him like a warm wave. Tony was pleased with him. He despised himself and soon Gordon would hate him too, but at least Tony was pleased. Despite his fear and misery he found himself tentatively returning the smile.

Tony slipped a finger into his mouth for a moment, fellating it obscenely and smirking at Peter.

"I don't have any lube handy, but you can take it like this, can't you? I'm sure you can." He parted Peter's cheeks with his other hand and forced his damp finger into his arse. He had the angle wrong and his nail scratched Peter painfully as it went in, but a second later his lips were on Peter's cock again and Peter no longer cared about a stray finger. Tony got a second finger in with no more than a whimper of protest from Peter, who wanted to pull away but couldn't bring himself to distract Tony from whatever it was he was doing with his tongue. But he released Peter's cock again to spit into his hand, and Peter was finally able to rally his scattered thoughts.

"I- I don't have a condom," he said, with sudden hope. Maybe he wouldn't have to do this after all. After Tony had been so generous he knew he'd have to give him _something_ , but maybe he could just suck him off and call it a night. That seemed less awful, somehow. If Tony didn't fuck him, if he never came himself- it would still be a betrayal, but it felt like a lesser one. It would be entirely about Tony then, not him. And there would still be some part of him Tony hadn't had.

"Not to worry," Tony said, pulling one from his wallet and flashing it at him triumphantly. Peter slumped back in disappointment. Of course he had one. Peter wondered miserably if it had been meant for Cherie, or if Tony had been planning this all evening.

Tony's wet fingers slid into him again, three this time, and Peter winced at the stretch and again as he felt them brush against his prostate, sending a jolt to his cock. He thrust blindly into the wet heat of Tony's mouth, and felt the vibration of his laugh. Tony sucked blissfully hard for a second and then pulled off him.

"Yeah, I'd say you're ready. Up on your knees, I think."

Tony drew him upright, stripping him of his shirt as he went, and once he had him seated properly tugged off his shoes and the trousers bunching around his knees. Peter let himself be maneuvered, limp and unresisting as a rag doll. He allowed Tony to pull off his clothes and tug him to his feet, and let him gently guide him to kneel on the sofa, his arse in the air, bracing himself on the back. Tony abandoned him for a moment to unzip his own trousers and put on the condom, and Peter just knelt there, feeling awkward and exposed. His cock ached desperately, but he couldn't bring himself to touch it, to sanction this. Instead he buried his face in his arms and wished for a meteorite to hit or or a bomb to go off, anything to make Tony stop.

Then Tony's hands were running down his sides and the blunt head of his cock was pressing against Peter's hole, and then he was in with a sharp burn of friction. For a second Peter hoped it would hurt enough that he wouldn't enjoy it, so that he'd at least be spared the shame of taking pleasure in this betrayal. But then Tony thrust deeper and hit his prostate dead on, first go, and Peter's cock jumped to life again, and he knew with a sinking dread that Tony was going to be just as brilliant at this as he'd been with his mouth.

Tony took him hard, fast deep strokes that slammed into that sweet spot again and again until the pleasure and the pain mingled into a hot flood of arousal that coursed through Peter like a storm surge. It built and built until he was pushing back against Tony, desperate for anything that would send him over the edge. He'd been a passive victim before, his sin, terrible though it was, a sin of omission, but he knew this was true adultery. He wanted Tony now, wanted Tony's cock deeper inside him, wanted Tony's hand to relieve his own swollen erection. He was abetting this, encouraging it, moaning for Tony like a whore, and he was sick with self-loathing but but he couldn't stop himself.

At last Tony took pity on him and wrapped a hand around his cock, milking him gently, and that touch was all he needed. Peter came with a thin wail of shame, spurting semen all over Tony's hand. He wasn't sure when he started crying. By the time Tony's breathing grew erratic and he spent himself with a few forceful thrusts and a satisfied moan, Peter's cheeks were wet with tears and he was sniveling quietly to himself, muffling his sobs against his arm. Tony pulled out and rolled off him, and Peter slumped against the back of the sofa, weeping silently.

Tony took a moment to catch his breath, but eventually he noticed that all was not well. He took hold of Peter's arm and turned him over to face him.

"Hey, hey. What's the matter?"

Peter could only shake his head helplessly. Surely even Tony couldn't be _this_ thick- even if he'd mentally dubbed over all of Peter's protests, he ought to be able to brainstorm at least one surly Scottish reason why Peter might be a trifle upset.

"Oh, Peter," Tony shook his head in fond exasperation. "Why didn't you _say_ something?"

Peter rather thought he _had_ said something. As he struggled to gulp down his tears enough to point this out, Tony scooted closer to him and grabbed his shoulders, ignoring Peter's reflexive flinch. He leaned in to press their foreheads together, and his pale eyes caught the lamplight and held it, so that they gleamed like jewels. Tony had always had disconcerting eyes.

"Look, Peter, I'm your friend. I never would have slept with you if I didn't think you wanted it, you know that."

Did he know that? Yes, he supposed so. Tony was a dear friend; he wouldn't hurt him deliberately. He was just extremely careless with people, which Peter had known all along. This was just a misunderstanding. One had to be firm with Tony and Peter hadn't been, so Tony had got confused and then... this... had happened. It was Peter's fault, really.

It had to be. The alternative was too terrible to contemplate.

And he _had_ liked it in the end. Tony was rewriting history, but he wasn't entirely wrong; Peter had wanted it, at least for a little while.

And he had to go in to work tomorrow, the part of Peter's brain that wasn't weeping or stunned into blank silence observed cynically, and it was going to be very difficult for everyone if this had been something other than a misunderstanding. He and Tony needed to be able to work together, to trust each other, and he could not afford for anything to sour that trust. It was going to be bad enough having Gordon hate him; he couldn't afford to piss off Tony as well. Whatever had happened, whatever he had or had not said, whatever Tony had or had not done, the important thing was that that Tony didn't hold it against him, and he would, if there was the slightest hint that he'd been in the wrong. Much better for both of them if Peter were the one to blame.

He swallowed again and gave Tony a watery smile. "Of course I do, Tony. It was my fault, I never really told you 'no'."

Tony brushed his tears away with a finger, and leaned in again to kiss Peter gently on the forehead. "It's all right. I forgive you. Although I can tell you, you gave me a nasty shock when you burst into tears! It's not what I hope for in my lovers, y'know. I thought I gave you a pretty good time."

Peter didn't think this made them 'lovers', exactly, any more than a quick fuck over the back of the sofa constituted 'sleeping together.' But now didn't seem like the right time for a semantic argument. With an extreme effort of will he maintained the watery smile.

"It was okay."

"Only 'okay'?" Tony asked teasingly.

"Fine. You were magnificent, Tony, as always." Peter even managed to roll his eyes.

Tony grinned, and to Peter's relief bounced up again to gather his clothes, giving him some space. He'd almost stopped crying. He still had a tight feeling under his eyes and a lump of misery in his throat, but at least he wasn't sobbing anymore. Tony came back and handed him his shirt and tie, and Peter accepted them with relief, eager to restore the barrier of cloth between his naked skin and Tony's hungry gaze.

As he was buttoning his shirt, Tony reached down and tousled his hair. Peter hated it when people did that to him, had hated it ever since he was a child, but in light of the evening's greater violations it seemed petty to swat Tony's hand away. He bowed his head and suffered the patronizing gesture.

"You weren't half bad yourself. We'll have to do this again some time," Tony said, and added, too late, "if you want to, obviously."

Peter's hands froze halfway through fastening his last button. He looked up at Tony warily.

"Tony, you know I'd give you anything you wanted, if it wasn't for Gordon. But he won't forgive us for an affair. This could hurt the Project, Tony," he said, trying to sound firm and reasonable, and not like he was still swallowing tears. He searched Tony's face for some hint of comprehension, willing him with all his might to understand. This wasn't defiance or disloyalty. Tony had his allegiance as much as Gordon did; they were a team, and like Tony said earlier, he belonged to both of them. He would fight for them as faithfully and as fiercely as ever he had fought for Neil, and together they would remake the Labour Party into a party of government. Tony could command anything of him, anything but this.

Tony did not look convinced. He was studying Peter thoughtfully, his eyes narrowed in an expression Peter couldn't quite identify. It wasn't irritation, but he didn't look happy, and there was a certain calculation in his eyes that Peter didn't like. Peter noticed his own fingers clenching nervously on his tie and ducked his head to tie it, glad of the excuse to drop his gaze.

"Well, look," Tony said, "I would never endanger the Project."

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Tony bend down to pick up his trousers, and they were dumped in his lap a few seconds later. Peter clutched them, suddenly acutely conscious that he wasn't wearing anything from the waist down and he had no way to cover himself. His cock was still sticky with come, so he couldn't use his clothes, and he could see nothing with which to wipe it off.

"I- I know you'd never endanger it deliberately," Peter said, his fists clenching in the fabric.

"And I'll always look out for you and Gordon."

Peter could not help but feel that the night's proceedings had cast a certain pall of doubt over this statement, but he could find no tactful way to say so. He gave a minute, unhappy nod.

"So trust me a little, yeah?"

Peter looked up into a thousand kilowatt smile.

"I _do_ trust you. But everyone can make mistakes-"

"Not about us," Tony assured him. "I know you, I know what you want, and I know what I'm doing. It's all going to be okay, Peter, really. Now let's get you cleaned up."

He forestalled any rebuttal by leaving to get a bog roll. To Peter's relief he handed it over and then picked up his speech from the table and started leafing through it again, leaving Peter to dress in relative privacy. He didn't think he could take Tony touching him again right now. Peter went to flush the soiled paper down the toilet, and when he came back Tony beamed at him solicitously.

"Feeling better?"

"A little," Peter admitted.

"Good. I've got to tell you, you're still looking a little peaky. Shall we call it a night?"

"We still have to figure out what to say about the community care provisions-" Peter protested.

"We'll do it tomorrow. You're worn out. C'mon, I'll run you home."

"But my car's here-"

"You can come round tomorrow and pick it up," Tony said, and guided him into the hall with a firm hand on his elbow, snagging Peter's briefcase on the way.

Peter suspected that Tony was moved less by a concern for his welfare than by the desire not to spend the rest of the evening with a drearily disconsolate Peter, but he was in no state to argue. He let himself be bundled into Tony's car and leaned his forehead against the window, numbly watching the headlights flash by as they drove. He didn't think to ask whether 'home' meant his flat or Gordon's- his, he assumed, since it was so much closer. He was so out of it that they'd reached the Embankment before he realized where they were headed.

He started when he saw the trees and turned to Tony in dismay. "You didn't have to bring me all the way down here."

Tony shrugged. "I figured Gordon was expecting you. I know you're over there most nights; you're always there when I ring him. Do you want me to take you back to yours? We can just turn around."

"No, it's all right. I just..." Peter trailed off, shaking his head. He hadn't expected to have to confront Gordon so soon, without any time to prepare. But he had to confess. Hiding this wasn't an option; it was bound to come out somehow. Tony would crack some crass, careless, joke about Peter's tight arse, or Peter would flinch at an unexpected hand on his shoulder, or it would show in their eyes as they looked at each other, and Gordon would _know_. Peter was absolutely sure of it. There were whole sets of social skills that Gordon lacked, but he could scent conspiracy like a bloodhound.

If they even got so far as a conspiracy. Given Peter's current mental state, he was willing to lay pretty good odds he would give the whole game away right at the start by bursting into tears the first time Gordon touched him. No, there was no concealing this affair, and if he was going to confess, better not give Gordon cause to wonder whether he'd spent the night at Tony's by staying at his own flat. He should go straight to Gordon's and make a clean breast of it. Peter leaned against the window again and watched the trees go past, trying to plan out what he would say. But there didn't seem to be any defense to offer, any mitigating factor to emphasize. He hadn't wanted it, but he hadn't stopped it either. There were some things even the Prince of Darkness couldn't spin.


	3. Chapter 3

Tony left him outside Gordon's building with an awkward "Well, see you tomorrow, then," all forced cheer and nervous grin. Possibly even Tony felt a bit guilty pulling up outside his best friend's flat half an hour after cuckolding him. Or perhaps it was Peter's obvious misery that was worrying him, not the pangs of conscience. Either way, Peter had little doubt that Tony would go home and sleep the untroubled sleep of the righteous while he and Gordon tossed and turned.

He trudged up the stairs to Gordon's flat. He had the hardest time getting his key to turn in the lock, and it was only on his third try that he realized it was because his hand was shaking. Inside, the flat was dark, with only a dim light streaming into the hall from the front room. Peter followed it and found Gordon at his desk by the window, bent over his papers, the lamp on his desk supplying the only illumination.

It broke Peter's heart all over again to know that Gordon had been diligently working all the while he and Tony were busily betraying him. Gordon was such a good person- sincere in his convictions, passionately devoted to the Labour Party and the people of Britain, tireless in his work, unshakably loyal to his friends. He was also surly and impossible, but his lack of social graces did nothing to alter his fundamental decency. Peter had always been a bit in awe of his sheer _goodness_.

And how had his best friends rewarded it? By cuckolding him, when they knew full well he would have died rather than betray either of them. And on top of that they hadn't even managed to finish Tony's speech. Gordon deserved better than Peter, he really did. Peter wasn't often ashamed of himself- he knew he could be a vicious bastard at times, but only in the service of the Party, and he made no apologies for his bourgeois sensibilities- but right now he wanted to crawl under a rock like the pond life he was.

Gordon looked up briefly as he came in, then turned back to his work.

"How's Tony, then?" he asked his books.

"He's, um. He's..." Peter couldn't think of an acceptable way to end that sentence. Well-shagged? Smug about his sexual prowess but slightly distressed to discover he wasn't good enough to make Peter forget they were both committed to someone else? Fortunately Gordon had asked the question as one of the reflexive social niceties Peter had spent the past five years trying to drum into him, rather than out of genuine interest, and he wasn't listening to the answer. Silence fell, interrupted only by the occasional scratch of Gordon's pen.

Peter set down his briefcase and stood awkwardly in the darkness by the door, wringing his hands. He had to tell him. Control the story, finesse the presentation as much as possible. This was going to be really bad, but if Gordon found out on his own it would be an utter disaster. He couldn't wait. He'd just have to spit it out.

"Gordon? Something's come up. We really need to talk."

Gordon didn't look up. "When I've finished this."

"Okay," Peter said, seizing the brief reprieve like a man falling off a cliff clutches at the grass at the edge. He couldn't stand here and wait, watching Gordon. He couldn't bear to look at him. His nerve broke and he fled into the bedroom, shutting the door behind him as if that could somehow keep his doom at bay. He sat down on the edge of the bed, his fingers digging into his knees, and tried to formulate some sort of argument, something, anything he could say. But he couldn't defend himself even to himself. Gordon was going to kill him.

It seemed a very short time before Gordon came in. Perhaps he'd nearly finished his reading already, or perhaps he'd noticed how upset Peter was and abandoned it. Either way it didn't seem fair. Wasn't time supposed to slow down when one was terrified? Peter hadn't had very long at all to collect his thoughts. Although given what passed for his thoughts, an eternity probably wouldn't have been enough.

Gordon stood in front of him and frowned, his arms crossed defensively over his chest.

"What's the matter now? Is Tony getting ahead of himself again?"

Peter couldn't meet his eyes. He bowed his head and stared at the dents his white fingertips were making in his trousers.

"In a manner of speaking. Um... we had sex, Gordon. He- he came on to me and I- I couldn't- So he fucked me."

" _What?_ "

Peter flinched. Outraged incredulity always sounded more outraged and more incredulous in a Scottish accent.

"I'm sorry. I didn't want him to. I really, really didn't want him to."

"What d'you mean you didn't want him to?" Strong fingers jerked his chin up, forcing him to meet Gordon's furious gaze. "Peter, are you saying he raped you?"

"No, of course not!" It wasn't like Tony had pinned him down and forced him. It had been a misunderstanding born of Tony's self-absorption and Peter's gutlessness, that was all. Not rape. And even if it had been, he couldn't possibly say so to Gordon, or Gordon would storm over to Tony's and kick his head in. Peter didn't want that on his conscience, he didn't want to see Tony hurt. They needed Tony. He tried to pull away from Gordon's hand and found that the grip on his chin was like the jaws of a vise.

"Then what the hell do you mean, you didn't want him to?"

"I mean I didn't want to have sex with him! I think it's pretty straightforward!"

Gordon scowled and backed off. "Considering you then _proceeded to have sex_ , I'd say it's not straightforward at all! You've always fancied him. I've seen how you look at him when you think I'm not watching. You wouldn't have had the balls to start anything, but I bet you jumped at the chance when he propositioned you, you faithless cunt. 'Course, he wouldn't take up with a mincing little queer like you full time, not our Tony. That's not middle England enough for him, nice family man that he is. The _Sun_ might not like it. But as somewhere warm to stick his prick while the missus is out of town- yeah, you're good enough for that."

Peter was fairly confident this was _exactly_ how Tony thought of him, and as Gordon said it he couldn't stop the tears from welling in his eyes. Gordon saw them and smiled bitterly.

"Oh, does that make you feel cheap, Peter? So it _should_ , you worthless little slut. You _are_ cheap. You didn't even have the decency to have a proper affair with someone who gave a shit about you. How does it feel to know he only fucked you 'cos he was bored of his hand?"

"Awful. I've felt awful since he did it! I didn't want this, I swear I didn't," Peter sobbed.

"Then maybe you shouldn't have jumped on his prick the second he snapped his fingers!"

"I didn't, I really didn't. I told him no, but he wouldn't l-listen. Please, Gordon, you've got to believe me. This was the only time and I d-didn't want to do it."

Even Peter didn't find his tearful entreaties particularly convincing, so it came as no surprise that Gordon was unmoved.

"Why the hell would I believe a word out of your mouth? You've always been a duplicitous little shit, and now I find out you're an _adulterous_ duplicitous little shit. It doesn't fucking inspire confidence, Peter."

Now _that_ was just unfair.

"I t-told you. I told you right away! I've been c-completely honest with you!"

"You're briefing preemptively," Gordon snapped, dismissing this.

Peter bowed his head again. "What am I supposed to do? If I hid it I'd be d-deceiving you. If I tell you everything, you accuse me of tr- of trying to spin it."

"You're _supposed_ to give a damn about our relationship and keep your fucking legs shut." Gordon stomped over to the window and flicked aside the blinds to peer out, as if he expected to find Tony lurking in the back alley. He failed to find whatever he was looking for and turned back to Peter, folding his arms over his chest again and glowering at him. "You flirt with everyone, but I never thought you'd actually cheat on me. I should have known better than to trust you."

Peter sniffled and wiped his dripping nose on his palm. "I didn't mean to cheat on you, Gordon, truly. I didn't want to, I really didn't."

"You obviously didn't _not_ want to, or you would have fucking turned him down! Does this really mean so little to you that you'd throw it all away for one night with him?" Gordon shook his head in disgust. "I don't know why I'm asking you that, you've already fucking answered it. God. I can't believe I was stupid enough to think you loved me. You're not _capable_ of love. Fondness, affection, sure, but love demands sacrifices of people. And you, you've got to have everything, don't you? You're like a kid in a sweetshop with your grubby little fingers in every jar. You can't just take one sweetie, it's not good enough just to have me, not when you can have _Tony_ too."

"That's not true! I do love you. Not him, not like that, just you! I'd do anything for you, I'd sacrifice anything! How can I prove it?"

Gordon just looked at him, sullen and implacable. "You can't."

"Gordon, I love you. And I'm so, so sorry about this. I never wanted it, I never-" he broke off, choked by his tears.

"Did you like it?"

"N-no, of course not!" Peter said immediately, but he could tell from the hurt fury on Gordon's face that he wasn't buying it.

"You pathetic slut."

"Well, maybe if you paid some attention to me once in a while it wouldn't have made for such a change!" Peter snapped, too overwrought to control himself. There was a long moment in which they both seemed to hang frozen, Peter staring up at his lover, aghast, his mouth half open, scarcely able to believe what had just come out of it, and Gordon glaring down at him like an angry god, Zeus or perhaps Thor, some deity who brought thunderstorms.

Then the lightening struck and Gordon slapped him.

For a second he just sat there as his cheek burned and his mouth filled with the coppery taste of blood, trying to take it in. Gordon had never once raised a hand to him in all the time he had known him. Peter, moved by some stubborn Gordonish political idiocy, had occasionally thrown a punch at _him_ , but in those rare dust-ups Gordon just took hold of his wrists, looked him in the eye and said flatly, "Stop," and that was the end of it, because Peter never disobeyed that firm tone and he couldn't have freed himself from Gordon's grip even if he'd dared. And Gordon did not reciprocate in kind. Sometimes when they argued he took a bruising hold of Peter's arm and threw him out of the room, but he never struck him.

But fast on the heels of the shock came bitter fury, because Gordon had just slapped him. _Slapped_ him! Open-palmed, like he would a girl or a child! He didn't even respect Peter enough to make it backhand. If he wanted to beat the shit out of Peter, he had every justification; Peter wouldn't lift a finger to stop him. But he was not having this. If this was to be the end of their relationship, he'd at least be taken seriously for one fucking night.

"Why don't you hit me properly?" he yelled. "At least Tony has the steel to take what he wants! You gripe and you moan about everything but you never draw a line! You let the Tories off for Black Wednesday, you let John settle for half measures, you let Tony walk all over you, you let Charlie run around saying God knows what- why don't you fucking stand up for yourself for once? If you're angry then punish me, don't just stand there and tell me what a tart I am!"

"As you like," Gordon said, scowling harder. He reached down, yanked Peter to his feet by his tie, and socked him in the face.

Peter couldn't complain _this_ was not a proper punch. Pain exploded around his eye like a supernova, a blazing core on his cheekbone where Gordon's knuckles had landed and a ring of numbness spreading beyond it. The world flashed white for a moment and his ears rang. When his vision cleared, he found Gordon's fist drawn back, poised to punch him again. Peter cringed in his grip and braced himself, but after a moment his lover sucked in a deep breath and his arm dropped back to his side. He let go of Peter's tie and shoved him down onto the bed.

"Get your trousers off and kneel on the bed," Gordon growled, and Peter hastened to obey, foregoing his normal consideration of folding them in deference to Gordon's mood. He was still a little tender from Tony and Gordon didn't seem in the mood to think of trivial considerations like lube, so this was going to hurt like hell, but if a rough fuck was all it took for Gordon to forgive him he would take it and be grateful. He pulled off his pants, clambered up on the bed and propped himself up on his knees and elbows, kneeling at the edge so that Gordon wouldn't have to bother taking off his shoes.

Behind him Peter heard the jingle of Gordon's belt as he unbuckled it. He rested his head on his arm and waited for Gordon to take him. In a few minutes this would all be over and then maybe Gordon wouldn't be so angry anymore and they could begin trying to fix this mess. All Peter wanted was a hug from his lover and a promise that everything would be okay, but to reach such comforts he would have to walk through the flames of Gordon's hurt and fury, if indeed he could reach them at all. Gordon might never hug him again. That thought was staggering, and it started the tears rolling down Peter's cheeks once more.

This was the worst night of Peter's life, bar none. It was worse than the 9th of April, 1992, when he'd seen the carnage coming and at least he'd had his new seat to console him, worse than that time Peter Ashby strolled in and casually announced, "Oh, by the way, I slept with Kay on holiday, but you don't mind, do you?" as if he were apologizing for drinking some of Peter's orange juice, worse than the night when the Lambeth Council voted 40 to 24 for sheer insanity and Peter had come within inches of tearing up his party membership card and storming out of the room, worse than that time when he was eleven and he got a stomach flu and vomited for nine straight hours. He wasn't sure this _was_ fixable. But he had to try, and letting Gordon take his pound of flesh seemed like a necessary prerequisite to any reconciliation.

It wasn't until Gordon's belt sliced into his arse that Peter had the slightest inkling what form that pound of flesh would take. He yelped at the unexpected pain and looked over his shoulder at Gordon, who was eyeing him with the expression of vicious satisfaction he usually reserved for Norman Lamont.

"You said I should punish you," Gordon said smugly.

Peter had, it was true. He just hadn't been banking on something like this. He thought of protesting or getting up; this was bloody humiliating and it _hurt_ , and he had his dignity to consider. But then, he supposed the humiliation was part of the point, and Gordon _was_ the wronged party. In seemed only fair that he should choose the form of Peter's penance. Peter buried his face in the duvet and steeled himself to endure.

It was going to take quite a lot of steel. In Gordon's hands the doubled belt was absolutely brutal, a band of fire that he lashed across Peter's arse again and again. By the third stroke Peter was sobbing, and by the eighth he was biting back howls of pain. The blaze in his bottom was so excruciating that he could scarcely feel the bruise on his face any longer, and every fresh blow compounded the agony.

The belt landed across an earlier welt, leaving an incandescent line of pain like the cut of a knife, and Peter grit his teeth to keep from screaming. He had to stay quiet; Gordon would despise him if he made a fuss. He already mistrusted Peter's dainty eating habits, his lack of enthusiasm for sporting events, his nice ties, his unrepentant homosexuality. If he couldn't buck up and take his thrashing like a man it would confirm all of Gordon's worst suspicions about him.

He was rather afraid that taking it at all was confirming Gordon's worst suspicions, but there was no help for that. That was the trap Peter always fell into; when he meekly followed orders everyone despised him for a poof, but if he dared to defy them and stand up for himself they resented it and tripped over themselves in their haste to smack him back down again. If some acceptable balance of subservience and assertiveness existed, Peter had never managed to find it.

The best he could do was to kneel here and take whatever punishment Gordon saw fit to give him. Peter hadn't been brave enough to stand up to Tony, but he could prove his courage and devotion by enduring this. He had to. Infidelity might be atoned for and forgiven, but Gordon would never stay with a coward. The belt slammed into him again and drew a humiliating whimper from him.

However much it hurt he mustn't beg for mercy, that was the main thing. He didn't deserve any. This was all his fault. He'd let Tony fuck him, he'd even gotten off on it, he was a pathetic slut like Gordon said and he deserved to be punished. He deserved this. He _deserved_ this. Peter repeated the litany over and over in his head and tried to keep himself still, tried to keep his arse up so Gordon would have his target.

It was getting harder with every stroke. The force of the belt kept rocking him forward, and his legs were beginning to tremble. He clenched his fists in the duvet to stabilize himself and to try to control the pain, but it didn't help. Nothing could help but Gordon stopping and maybe a bathtub full of ice. His arse was on _fire_ , it felt like Gordon's belt was coated in burning napalm and more and more of it was sticking to him every time it landed. The pain was unbearable and he wanted it to end more than he'd ever wanted anything, more than he'd wanted Tony to stop earlier, more than he wanted the Tories out of government. But somehow he would have to bear it.

Behind him Gordon was ominously silent. The only sounds were his occasional grunts of exertion, the loud slap of the belt against Peter's skin, and Peter's muffled cries. Peter wished he would talk to him, even if it was just to castigate him; it would have made the beating seem less terrible somehow, more human. But Gordon was letting the belt do his talking for him, and Peter found it a very convincing orator. Oh God, he really couldn't take much more of this.

"I'm s-s-sorry," he ventured between sobs, past the point of trying to be brave. He was crying so hard that between the mucus clogging his throat and the violence of his sobbing it was getting hard to breathe, and his legs felt like they were on the brink of collapse. He wasn't going to beg for mercy, he wasn't, but if there was anything he could do to convince Gordon he'd learned his lesson and there was no need to continue...

"Shut up, Peter," said Gordon, who evidently took the view there _was_ a need to continue, and made his opinion felt quite forcefully. The blow knocked Peter onto his stomach, and as he was struggling to his hands and knees again he backed up too far and found nothing but empty air beneath his left leg. He fell halfway off the bed, knocking the breath from his lungs and jarring his kneecaps on the floor, but Gordon didn't give him any time to recover. The belt sliced across his bottom again and again, and Peter gave up trying to climb back onto the bed or to make Gordon stop and just lay flat on his stomach and wept.

He lost track of what was happening after that. It didn't seem like the beating would ever end, and hoping for it to stop was just a constant, painful disappointment, so Peter stopped hoping. Everything hurt. The whole world hurt; even the light hurt when he looked up from the duvet for an instant. It was like the worst hangover he'd ever had, even discounting the indescribable agony in his rear. He was swallowing so much snot that he was starting to make himself queasy, and every time the belt struck him it jarred his head and exacerbated his growing headache as well as redoubling the blaze in his arse.

At some point Gordon must have stopped hitting him, but Peter was in so much pain that it took him a while to notice. When his brain kicked into gear again, he found himself sprawled over the edge of the bed, with the duvet bunched around him like a soft, burgundy nest. He'd pulled it halfway off the bed in his contortions. His head hurt, his arse hurt more than he'd ever imagined anything _could_ hurt, and he was fighting off a wave of nausea. And he was still crying.

He glanced cautiously over his shoulder and found Gordon watching him, the belt still doubled in his hand, his expression unreadable even to Peter's long-practiced eyes. There was perhaps something of an air of expectation about him. Did he want sex, after all that? But Peter had let Tony. How could he give Gordon anything less? He pushed himself up on his elbows and tried to clamber back up onto the bed. On the second try he managed to get a leg under him and lever himself up the rest of the way, and he crawled back into position, offering Gordon his arse.

There was a sharp intake of breath behind him. "What, you still want more?" Gordon snarled.

"No! N-no, I just thought you might w-want to... you know."

"Take Tony's leavings? No." Gordon grabbed his collar and jerked him to his feet, half choking him in the process. Peter's stiff legs barely held him, and he staggered backward into Gordon, who pushed him away in disgust.

He turned around slowly, afraid of what he'd see in his lover's face but unsure what to do about it. He'd apologized, he'd let Gordon beat him until he could scarcely stand, what else was there? He'd offer sexual favors- to whatever extent he could, at any rate; he was so choked up with snot and tears that any blowjobs he gave tonight were going to be well below par- but it seemed like Gordon wasn't in the mood. And any political favors he could do, he was already doing.

Gordon was gathering up Peter's trousers and shoes from the floor. He wadded everything into a ragged ball and shoved it at him. "Get out of my sight."

Peter clutched his clothes to his chest- he really wished Gordon hadn't wrapped his shoes in his good suit trousers, but this wasn't the time to raise that grievance- and searched his lover's face for a hint of forgiveness or affection. He'd taken his medicine without so much as a protest, surely that should have bought him something? But there was nothing in Gordon's eyes but that same sullen, smoldering anger.

"I love you," Peter said, knowing it was futile but with nothing else to offer. "I don't love him, only you."

"Maybe so, but it's not enough to stop you from betraying me for him. So your love is worth absolutely fucking nothing, and so are you. Get out, Peter." Gordon sat down heavily on the foot of the bed and put his head in his hands.

"I'm sorry," Peter said again, and fled back down the hall.


	4. Chapter 4

Peter set his sorry bundle of clothing down on the sofa and eyed it warily. He ought to go home, he knew he ought to; Gordon had essentially thrown him out. But the prospect of the walk and the Tube ride halfway across the city was too much for him. Just walking down the hall had been an ordeal. How could he make it from here to Westminster, and from Russell Square to his own flat, half a mile away? There was a reason he never took the bloody Tube. And he couldn't possibly take a cab, not when he'd have to sit on those hard leather seats the whole way.

Well, one thing at a time. The first order of business was to get into his trousers. Actually, the first order of business had better be to see if he was bleeding; he didn't want to ruin his suit along with everything else. Peter tentatively reached back and felt his arse. It was hot, like a bad sunburn, with that same slightly tacky surface, but it was rough where a new sunburn would have been smooth. He could feel the welts, long lines where the edges of the belt had struck him.

On the surface it had a sunburn's tenderness, but when he pressed a finger down experimentally the pain didn't flare and then fade out, like a sunburn would. It hurt worse the harder he pressed; the muscle was bruised as well as the skin. He realized with some surprise that this was probably the worst injury he'd ever had. It was certainly painful enough to qualify; his arse was throbbing ferociously now, along with the burning sting that still hadn't abated. But his searching fingers found no trace of blood.

He looked over his shoulder to confirm this and discovered that this too hurt. Twisting his spine somehow aggravated the welts, pulling on them and stirring them into fresh spikes of agony. Whimpering softy, he finally managed to get himself in a position to see the top half of his arse and the back of his thighs and assess the damage. It looked horrible. He didn't see any blood, but there were rectangular blotches of brick red bruising along his right side where the end of the belt had wrapped around his hip, and the center of his arse looked even worse, a dusky magenta with thin crimson stripes where the edge of the belt had dug into the skin and purple patches in the places where he'd been hit the most.

Technically speaking, he probably _could_ put on his pants and trousers, but he really, really didn't want to. Then again, the pain in his backside seemed to have descended to some high plateau of agony and made camp there. It wasn't stinging quite so much now, but the throbbing ache persisted with malicious determination. Getting dressed wasn't going to be any more pleasant five minutes from now than it was at present.

Peter grit his teeth and got on with it. His pants were an absolute nightmare, reigniting the fires across his arse as they brushed against the battered skin and cutting into his welts along the leg holes. After he'd managed that the trousers weren't so bad, but his socks presented difficulties. He couldn't possibly sit down to pull them on, and every time he bent his knees it pulled his trousers tight against his arse and subjected him to fresh torments. In the end he wound up keeping his legs rigidly straight, bending over at the waist and sort of shuffling into them. He must have looked absolutely ridiculous, like a bloody rice farmer, but in the end he managed to pull them up. Feeling almost proud of himself for this modest accomplishment, he slipped into his shoes and staggered off to the loo to wash the tears off his face.

His face in the mirror was white and drawn. He looked like he'd seen a ghost, or become one. He felt a little better once he'd splashed some water on his face and he was no longer quite so sticky, but he still looked like the walking dead, and the journey to the Tube station was still beyond him. Going down the stairs was probably beyond him. And there were other people out there, people with whom he might have to interact; he'd have to look reasonably together and not like an easy mark, and his current expression screamed 'Mug me!' even to him. He just wasn't up to heading out right now.

Instead, he went into the kitchen and made himself a cup of tea, hoping to fortify himself. The clock on the microwave said 9:30, but it felt later, so much later that Peter checked his watch because he couldn't believe the microwave. Surely that beating had lasted longer than fifteen minutes? But his watch confirmed the time. He put the kettle on and stared vacantly into the flickering blue flame, his mind strangely blank. There was something almost nice about it, not the pain, of course, but the emptiness where he'd normally have a hundred thoughts scurrying around. It was like a bank holiday for his brain.

He thought about icing his welts, but he couldn't quite work out the mechanics. Gordon surely had some frozen vegetables he could borrow, but he couldn't possibly sit on them, and lying on his stomach and pressing the ice pack against his arse sounded uncomfortable. He had a vague feeling that this conundrum shouldn't be quite so difficult to resolve. Perhaps this was shock? Could one go into shock from pain alone? Then again, his arse was that horrible purple color, so he'd clearly lost blood, only it was still inside his body because the belt hadn't broken the skin. Did that count as blood loss? Well, tea was supposedly good for shock, although Peter doubted that bit of conventional wisdom had ever been medically tested.

The kettle whistled and he dug out a tea bag and a mug- Gordon did not believe in teacups- and after a moment's consideration, a second tea bag and another mug for Gordon. He was still lurking about the flat against Gordon's implicit orders, so he might as well justify his continued presence. Normally Peter took his tea with lemon, but he'd used up the last one yesterday and he didn't quite dare to cut into a new one in case Gordon had become territorial about his groceries in light of their row. He added milk to both cups and a lump of sugar to Gordon's, and found a tray to carry them.

The bedroom door was still standing open, with light streaming out into the hallway. Peter hadn't been able to close it behind him, encumbered as he'd been with shoes and trousers, and it seemed Gordon hadn't bothered. He was probably still sitting on the bed and sulking. Peter sidled cautiously around the doorframe, bracing himself for a rebuff, but he needn't have worried. Gordon was flopped out on the bed, fast asleep and still fully clothed, although he'd managed to take off his shoes. There would be no reconciliation tonight.

Peter knelt to set down his tray so he could shut the light, and bit back a cry of pain at the sudden stab of agony as the movement pulled the seat of his trousers tight against his bruised arse. He'd carelessly forgotten that it was no longer safe to bend his knees. He froze, scarcely daring to breathe- he'd come in here to talk, if Gordon would let him, but the idea of waking him was suddenly terrifying- but the soft rhythm of Gordon's snoring continued uninterrupted. Peter waited for a moment to be sure, and then slipped into the room.

Despite the persistent ache in his backside, he found himself feeling a bit sorry for Gordon. People were supposed to look peaceful, sleeping, like angels or the children they had once been. Gordon didn't. He looked pale and unhappy, the anger that had in waking pulled his features into a heavy scowl drained away by sleep to leave behind a tidewrack of misery. There was an anxious line between his brows, and his dark hair was sticky with sweat and plastered in messy curls to his temples. It was a sweat he'd worked up whipping Peter, but still. Peter wondered if Gordon had fallen asleep regretting that he'd beaten him.

Really, this whole thing was horrid of Tony. Even if Peter had been willing- and he accepted that Tony hadn't realized he wasn't, although since he'd fucking _said_ he wasn't about six times that was a problem in and of itself- Gordon was Tony's friend too, and he should have had the basic decency not to do this to them. It was one thing to betray Cherie. Cherie had faith in her marriage and the resolve to defend it; if she ever found out about their little tryst, he suspected she would take a spot of infidelity in stride. Tony might wind up on the sofa for a week or two, but sooner or later she'd forgive him, and Peter doubted she'd take a belt to him first either. _Peter_ might be in for a slap, come to think of it, but she would eventually let Tony talk his way back into her affections.

Gordon wasn't like that. Gordon was always waiting to fail at things, to not measure up, to lose things or to see them collapse. He didn't have the fundamental trust in people needed to weather a shock like this with equanimity. At least, he didn't have the fundamental trust in Peter. Or maybe it was himself he didn't trust, because that was what lay at the heart of his anger, the fear that somehow he wasn't good enough, that Peter had chosen Tony over him.

Tony _knew_ Gordon, he _knew_ how badly Gordon would take something like this. And he also knew that Peter could say nothing to reassure him, that Peter couldn't insist he _hadn't_ chosen Tony, for fear Gordon would come round the office next morning and punch Tony's shiny teeth in. Tony must have known this would be devastating to them, he just didn't care. Five minutes of his own pleasure were worth more to him than the stability of Gordon and Peter's relationship. It was such a beautifully orchestrated catastrophe that Peter was starting to have vague, paranoid fears that Tony had deliberately set out to undermine them, and he couldn't even decide if that was better or worse than the more likely explanation that Tony simply didn't give a shit about their well-being.

But it didn't do any good to think that way. Tony was his friend too, and his pathological selfishness was as inextricably tangled in everything Peter loved about him as Gordon's brooding anger was in everything that made Gordon Gordon. He could reform the Labour Party, but he couldn't reform his friends. All they could do was try to navigate around the shoals. And Gordon had such a lot of shoals; he was like some rugged island in a remote Scottish firth, all set about with rocks and rough seas and no safe harbor. Tony was more like a tropical lagoon, tranquil and inviting on the surface, all crystalline turquoise water and brilliant white sand, but with spikes of coral just under the waves waiting to rend a ship in two and send the sailors down to the undertow and the sharks. And Peter was doomed to sail their uncharted waters, because John Smith was more like the Isle of Man- easy enough to get there, but why would anyone bother?

Gordon looked cold, so Peter went to the bed and pulled a corner of the duvet- still a little damp from his tears- over his legs. Then he shut the light and took the tray back to the kitchen.

He stood beside the kitchen counter and drank his tea. That pleasant blankness he'd felt while he waited for the kettle to boil had vanished; his thoughts were a churning maelstrom now, Gordon and Tony and Tony and Gordon swirling round and round with the Project at the center, Charybdis sucking them all down. Which was not how he thought about it normally, not at all. But he didn't spent his evening being sexually harassed and beaten, normally, so he supposed he could be excused a moment's melodramatic Homeric metaphor. 1992 had felt a little like this, but there were still so many things he could see to do, and it was hard to be completely despondent about an election which had put him in Parliament, even if it was for a constituency that hadn't been seriously contested since 1959. Whereas this... if this problem was solvable at all, Peter certainly couldn't think how.

He found he had reached the bottom of his cup of tea. He sipped Gordon's, but it was much too sweet for him, so with a trace of guilt he consigned it to the drain. He washed the mugs and put them away, and then there was nothing left to do except go home. Peter still couldn't bear the thought of the journey. He was still in so much pain, and there was just so much dark, cold _night_ between here and his own flat, miles, of it, and when he got there he'd be all alone in his increasingly unfamiliar home with nothing but his welts for company. There was a certain comfort in Gordon's presence down the hall, even unconscious and hating him.

He tried to think of a way to procrastinate his departure. There was work in his briefcase, but he couldn't sit down to read it, and he was too upset to concentrate properly anyway. He could tidy up the chaos of books and papers strewn around Gordon's front room, but that seemed intrusive given that he wasn't meant to be here at all. The only thing Peter could think to do was to go to sleep here and hope that by some miracle things would be better in the morning, or at least that he would be strong enough to face the journey home. He was an even earlier riser than Gordon was; he could be up and gone before Gordon realized he'd stayed the night.

Gordon's sofa was quite comfortable in the ordinary way of things, but it wasn't long enough to lie down on and there was no chance Peter would be able to fall asleep sitting up, not tonight. In the end he took one of the cushions for a pillow and lay prone on the carpet, draping his jacket over him for a blanket. He'd be stiff in the morning, but he would have been anyway, with these bruises. It was strange, lying on the floor in the dark room with the dim glow of the street lamps streaming through the window and painting the wall orange. He could hear the water gurgling in the pipes under the floor and a faint thrumming vibration from somewhere, perhaps the furnace; all the little noises of the building that were normally hidden. It was like lying in the belly of some vast living creature and listening to it breathe.

He tried to empty his mind and let the soft night rhythm of the building lull him to sleep, but he lay awake for what felt like hours, staring into the dark.


	5. Chapter 5

Peter awoke to the sound of Gordon thumping down the hall. He felt that jolt of visceral horror that accompanies the realization that one has overslept, and in his case, in the house of a Scottish madman who had whipped him senseless and thrown him out the night before. But looking out the window he saw the sky was still untouched by dawn. Gordon had awakened in the night as he sometimes did and got up to read or to make himself a cup of tea, and he was going to find Peter curled up on his floor.

Peter thought of hiding behind the sofa, but it didn't strike him as a strategy likely to meet with success, and anyway he couldn't get there in time. Gordon was already turning on the light. Peter flipped himself over, stifling a cry of pain as his raw arse touched the floor, and sat up, squinting against the sudden brightness.

"Peter," Gordon said. At least he sounded surprised rather than furious, although there was still plenty of time for that to change.

"Hi," he managed weakly, too chilled and sore and befuddled by sleep to try to think of a better opening.

"Have you been there all night?" Gordon asked, which even for whatever ungodly hour of the morning this was struck Peter as an idiotic question. What, did Gordon think he'd gone home to his own flat and come back to sleep on Gordon's floor?

"I couldn't-" Peter began, and found he couldn't explain either. He gathered up his jacket. "I- I'm sorry. I'll go."

"Don't be daft," Gordon said, rubbing his forehead. "It's four in the morning. Go to bed."

"Really?"

"I'm not sending you out at this hour in that state. Go on." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the bedroom.

"Thank you," Peter said fervently. "I really am sorry about Tony. I know I can't expect your forgiveness, but-"

"Peter, it's four in the fucking morning, and if I wanted to listen to you grovel I could have done it while I was thrashing you. You're still in disgrace, but I'm not dumping you, if that's what you're worried about. Now get off to bed and get out of my face for a while, will you?"

Bed was blissfully soft and warm, and Peter drifted off almost instantly. He was awakened again by Gordon climbing in beside him. He'd meant to pretend to be asleep, but as Gordon arranged the duvet he jerked it tight against Peter's bum and the ensuing whimper gave him away.

Gordon chuckled. "How's the arse?"

"Sore," Peter grumbled into the pillow. "You bastard."

"Good," Gordon said, and patted it firmly, making Peter's vision flash white for a moment and drawing a cry of pain from him. "You deserved every bit of that. Though I am sorry I punched you."

"I asked for it," Peter reminded him. He felt quite strongly that the punch was not the thing for which Gordon needed to apologize.

"You did, but then, you've never known what's good for you. I shouldn't have risen to the provocation. Shouldn't have belted you in anger, either, for all you had it coming."

"I think we can accept that we both made certain mistakes tonight," Peter said.

"Some of us more than others," Gordon said darkly, but he reached out and drew Peter to him. This had the unfortunate effect of turning Peter on his side so his raw arse was pressed against Gordon's thigh, and he yelped, but he was too glad about finally getting his hug to mind the pain. He snuggled under Gordon's arm with intense relief. Maybe they really would be okay.

"Promise me you'll never do it again," Gordon said, his own voice cracking for the first time that night.

Or maybe not.

"I promise," Peter swore, turning his head to kiss him. "I promise, never again," but even as he said it he knew it was a commitment he wasn't strong enough to keep.

He'd learned something about himself tonight, something about Tony too, and it wasn't a comforting knowledge. He couldn't refuse Tony, not if Tony wanted something badly enough. Peter would be more careful around him in the future. There would be no more flirting, that was for sure, and he'd try to avoid being left alone with him. But sooner or later another opportunity would inevitably arise, and if Tony wanted to take advantage of it, what hope did Peter have of stopping him? He hadn't had the steel for it this time, and there was no reason to suppose the next time would be any different.

It all came down to Tony, and self-restraint had never been one of Tony's virtues. He had been genuinely distressed by Peter's tears, Peter thought- whatever else he was, he was a kind person, and he didn't like to see his friends unhappy. But that was just it, he didn't like to _see_ his friends unhappy. That he was the cause of it hadn't seemed to trouble him. He'd simply wanted Peter to cheer up, and Peter had caved in on that too and smiled for him, because when Tony wanted something Peter gave it to him. He didn't even have the integrity to defend his own misery.

He should have felt safe in Gordon's heavy embrace. Instead he was intensely conscious, almost for the first time, of the fragility of their world. What did their relationship amount to, in the end? Peter's muesli in the kitchen cupboard, a few spare changes of clothes in Gordon's closet, a few books on the shelves and papers scattered around the front room, a spare key to this flat. Only one spare key, because Gordon never came round to his- Peter didn't think he had a single one of his lover's possessions in his keeping. The entirety of their cohabitation could be packed into a single cardboard box.

And then there was the total secrecy of their relationship, from all but a few of their closest friends. Peter's _mum_ didn't even know. It had been at Peter's insistence as much as Gordon's- it was all right for the Prince of Darkness to be gay, if he wasn't ostentatious about it, but it was another thing entirely for the Shadow Chancellor, especially if the person he happened to be sleeping with was the aforementioned Prince of Darkness. But Tony was right. They weren't married. In Tony's eyes it obviously didn't qualify as a relationship at all, at least not one with boundaries that needed to be respected.

And there was love, of course. That at least was substantial, as intense and consuming a love as Peter had ever experienced. That at least could not vanish without a trace. It had sunk deep roots into both their hearts, and while it could be torn out, it would leave gaping scars, wounds that would never fully heal. But real though their love was, Gordon mistrusted it, or Peter, or himself, and there was nothing to buttress it- no home that they had built together, no social expectation that they were a couple, not even a happy union.

For they weren't happy. Peter knew what happy relationships looked like; his parents had had one, and he'd been happy with Peter, up until the end. His relationship with Gordon was many things- intense, committed, productive, supportive- but happy it was not. Perhaps it was the grinding, impotent misery of opposition, wearing on their tempers year after year, or perhaps Gordon was just an intrinsically dismal person, but whatever the reason, Peter had to admit they weren't happy together. They argued constantly, they got on each other's nerves, Gordon's refusal to come to grips with his own sexuality and his intermittently concealed disdain for Peter's were a constant grating vexation, between Peter's reserve and Gordon's emotional dysfunction any sort of normal communication about the state of their relationship was impossible, and no one really seemed to be enjoying the sex, which might have been normal for Gordon but certainly wasn't for Peter.

But they were happier together than apart. Only Peter could soothe Gordon's rages and lighten his bouts of despondency, and as for Peter, he needed to be needed. To be needed by _Gordon_ , Gordon with his diamond-sharp mind and his bone deep understanding of the Party, Gordon who had been arguing the case for reform while Peter was still dicking around at _Weekend World_ , Gordon who would be the next great leader of the Labour Party- that was a delight and an honor that still made Peter giddy at times.

The relationship had other perks. Gordon understood that sixteen hour days constituted a reasonable work-life balance for a politician, his flat was conveniently located, and while Peter would never be so vulgar as to sleep with someone for political advantage, it certainly wasn't hurting his career to get all the news from the Shadow Chancellor's office over breakfast every morning. And for all their bickering Peter simply adored Gordon and always had, and he would put up with far worse than mediocre sex to be with him.

But what it really came down to was this: they had achieved a sort of symbiosis, like a lichen. Gordon was the powerhouse who turned sunlight into policy, and Peter anchored him to the ground, shielded him from the elements, extended hyphae everywhere to extract every scrap of nourishment from their surroundings. It was easier to face the long winter of opposition and the buffeting winds of the media as a couple, and it was that reciprocal need that bound them together.

It  was a strong bond, but it had only that single strand, and Peter knew it would not be enough to hold against a repeated attack from Tony. He would lose Gordon soon enough as it was. In four years Gordon would move into Number 11, and Peter couldn't come and go from Downing Street unobserved the way he could here. They might be able to squeeze in a quick fuck now and then, but all the little pleasures of a shared life- waking up together over their predawn breakfast, mockingly reading out the latest histrionic column in the _Sunday Mail_ , ranting about a colleague's many shortcomings to a sympathetic audience at the end of a rough day, slipping into bed beside Gordon's warm bulk at night- all that would be lost to him. Peter tried not to think about it too much, but he didn't want to lose an hour of the time he had.

Tony could take that precious time away from him- from them, for Peter knew that despite his grumbling, Gordon was as glad to have Peter at his side as Peter was to be there- on a whim. And all because Peter was too weak to stop him. He'd never felt so utterly worthless, so powerless to protect the things he loved. As Gordon's breaths steadied into the slow, even murmur of sleep Peter found himself staring into the darkness again, kept awake by his fretful thoughts and the throbbing ache of his arse.

He clasped Gordon’s drooping hand in his, pulling his lover's arm tighter around his shoulders as if that could somehow anchor them together. But he knew it would take more than that to save them. Love demands sacrifices, Gordon had said, and that’s what it would take- Tony would have to sacrifice whatever it was he wanted from Peter, his body or perhaps some greater fealty, if they were to stay together.

In the days to come, they would learn how well Tony loved them.


End file.
